Your Kids Don’t Need “Perfect.” They Need “Persistent” and “Patient.”

Children with ADHD are special. They can be brilliant, curious, and stunningly creative; wonderfully kind and amazingly incisive, too. They can also be spacey, belligerent, and easily bored; altogether angry and hard-to-reach, too. And as we go through our days, with our child-so-creative or child-so-enraged, or usually both — together, at different times — our needs are very specific. We need certain qualities. Certain strengths that build up only after years of coping with the unique situations that children with ADHD throws at us. We don’t necessarily think about those qualities, but that doesn’t make them any less staggering — or essential on a day-to-day basis.

Patience is the ultimate virtue. It’s part and parcel of raising children with ADHD. Because when your kid can’t find their shoes again, and left their folder at school again, and is taking forever to eat breakfast, you can’t lose it.

You have to take a deep breath (always with the deep breaths). You have to put on your calm voice, no matter how much you want to smash windows. And you have to sweetly say things like, “Do you think your shoes might be under the couch?” or “Maybe you can eat a little faster, baby.” And you do this every single morning.

This scenario will happen to you. Your kid has forgotten their lunch/oboe/project. So you run in to school with said lunch/oboe/project, only to face all the side-eye from all the other parents. You can hear what they’re saying, even if you actually can’t: “Why not just let that kid grow up and needs to face the consequences of their actions? How else will they learn?”

You will walk the gauntlet of know-it-all parents and know that your kid is not like their kids. Your kid is neurodivergent. You know that bringing them forgotten stuff is not helicoptering; it’s accommodation. So you walk that gauntlet with head held high. And you smile, smile, smile.

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It’s gut-wrenching to watch your child try and fail, try and fail, over and over again. Not to mention demoralizing. You might think, when will they ever get this stuff right? When will they ever learn to make friends, learn to remember things, learn to sit still, learn to stop interrupting? Will they ever live a normal life? That is when this virtue kicks in: You just have to trust.

Every day, in everything you do, you have to trust. Trust that their therapy is working. Trust that medication is the right decision, if you decided to go with meds. Trust most of all that your child will grow up to be a productive, contributing member of society, just like the equally smart neurotypical kids you see every day. You worry. Oh, you worry so much. But you trust anyway.

Every single day, you persevere. You do not run away to Vegas and become a blackjack dealer, though some nights you fantasize about it. Instead, you wake up early. You help your kids find their shoes, improbably, underneath the dining room table you never use. You help them go over homework one last time and put it all in their bag, then you put the bag on theirback. You literally put their lunch in their hands. And when your child comes home raging because they're tired and hungry and worn out, you don’t lose it. You put your hands on their shoulders and encourage them to breathe with you. You want to scream along, but you breathe, in and out, in and out. Then you take out the homework and begin the afternoon rituals. They will take hours. But still, you persevere.

It’s scary to walk that gauntlet of other parents and know you’re getting judged for your parenting. It’s frightening to go to the doctor and tell them that you think your child needs medication. Things that normal parents take for granted, like signing up for Little League, can be fraught for ADHD families. You’re terrified: Are they ready? Will they do okay? Visiting a restaurant can provoke the same feelings. But you do it anyway. You do all these things anyway, not because you aren’t frightened, but because your child’s needs are greater than your fear.

You’re brave. You’re brave every single day, to move through the world with an misunderstood child. Though it may not feel that way, there are others out there who see it and who appreciate your courage.

Every day, you work hard to understand your kid. You want to scream; instead, you try to figure out why they did something. Why did they throw a tantrum at that moment? Were they hungry, thirsty, overwhelmed? Why did they steal from the class lost and found? Was there something they wanted and had a hard time ignoring, or was it malicious? Why does my child have such a hard time completing homework on time? Your day is awash in a sea of whys. You have devoted a parenthood to understanding this small creature, all day, every day. Because the rest of your child's life may depend on a strong, understanding advocate like you.

[Click to Read: How to Advocate Forcefully for Your Child]

You are the master of solutions. Tired of doing homework? Um … get up and run around the house three times! Can’t find your shoes? Here, every day we’ll leave them in the same place, you pick it. Can’t remember your backpack and lunch bag? Here’s a handy mnemonic we’ll say on the way out the door every single morning to make sure we have everything. Tantrum? Here, have a cracker. Don’t want to clean up? You’ve got six different solution for that, from dividing the room into quadrants to races to silly clean-up songs. You think on your feet all day. You’re always coming up with something new and different to solve a problem or hold your kid’s interest. You’re so creative, you’re like a walking Pinterest board.

Your kid is seldom prepared, because, well, ADHD. So you have to be prepared for them. You have to have extra pens and pencils. You have to carry snacks everywhere, all the time, because snacks can defuse a bad mood or derail a tantrum or just serve as a distraction. You may even carry a small bottle of meds, just in case they forget in the morning. You know where the extra pair of shoes is. You make sure you never run out of the one type of cereal they’ll eat. You have stickers. You have a new game on your phone. You have baby wipes long after you have babies. This isn’t because you’re some kind of super-organized parent. This is because you’re raising a child with ADHD, and you’ve got to be prepared if you’re going to survive.

You may be meek. You may be mild. But when it comes to your child, you’re their number one advocate. You can barrel into an IEP meeting, glare down everyone there, and get your kid what he needs to succeed. You can stare down the parents who decide their kids can’t play with your pinecone-thrower. “I told you he has a neurological difference,” you say loudly, and they duck their heads with shame. You can slam into school and demand that they deal with the bullies tormenting your kid, and you can stay there, bothering them, until you get a clear action plan and an assurance it will be followed through. You will fight for your baby until they can fight for themselves, no matter how long that takes.

And you couldn’t do any of this, wouldn’t do any of this, if it weren’t for the throat-clenching, gut-wrenching, heart-stretching love you feel every single minute for your child. You would fly to the moon and back for them. Some days, when you collapse into bed, it feels as if you have. Some days, you'll be reduced to tears of frustration. Some days, you'll be left breathless with awe. But you'll always, always, always love your child. It’s what gives you the patience to breathe through a tantrum. It gives you the persistence to get through homework, the courage to walk the parent gauntlet. Love gives you everything. You love, love, love your baby. You’d do anything and everything for them. And most days, it seems, you do.

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